Newsd ler & Stationer
igars & Con tionery
Before the door stood a wooden newspaper stand, painted red and black,
advertising the one-cent evening sheet which furnished it gratis. A few
dusty stacks of papers ornamented it. The door was wide open, disclosing
an interior furnished with dirt-smeared show-cases which housed a stock
of cheap cigars and tobacco, boxes of villainous candy to be retailed by
the cent's-worth, writing-paper in gaudy, fly-specked packages,
magazines, and a handful of brittle toys, perennially unsold. The floor
was seldom swept and had never been scrubbed in all the nine years that
Thursby had been a tenant of the place.
The establishment was, as Joan had anticipated, in sole charge of Butch,
who occupied a tilted chair, his lean nose exploring the sporting pages
of _The Evening Journal_. Inevitably, a half-consumed Sweet Caporal
cigarette ornamented his cynic mouth. He greeted Joan with a flicker of
amusement.
"'Lo, kid!" he said: and threw aside the paper. "What's doing?"
"Edna said you wanted to see me."
"Yeh: that's right." Butch yawned liberally and thrust his hat to the
back of his head.
"Well?" said the girl sharply. "What do you want?"
Butch delayed his answer until he had inserted a fresh cigarette between
his lips, lighted it from the old, and inhaled deeply. Interim he looked
her over openly, with the eyes of one from whom humanity has no secrets.
"Dja land that job?" he enquired at length, smoke trickling from his
mouth and nostrils, a grim smile lurking about his lips.
"Haven't tried yet."
"But you're goin' to?"
"Of course."
"What line? Chorus girl or supe in the legit?"
"I'm going to try to do anything that turns up," Joan affirmed
courageously.
"Try anythin' once, eh?" murmured the boy with profound irony. "Well,
where you goin' to hang out till you land?"
The lie ran glibly off her tongue this time: "With Maizie
Dean--Two-eighty-nine West Forty-fifth."
"That where you stayed last night?"
"Yes ..." she faltered, already beginning to repent and foresee unhappy
complications in event Butch should try to find her at the address she
had given.
The boy got up suddenly and stood close to her, searching her face with
his prematurely knowing eyes.
"Look here, kid!" he said roughly. "Hand it to me straight now: on the
level, there ain't no man mixed up in this?"
She was able to meet his gaze without a tremor: "On the dead level,
Butch."
"That's all right then. Only...."
"Only what?"
"There'll be regular trouble for the guy, if I ever find out you've lied
to me."
"What business--"
"Ah, cut that!" snarled Butch. "You're my sister--see? And you're a
damn' little fool, and somebody's got to look out for you. And that
means me. You go ahead and try this stage thing all you like--but duck
the men, duck 'em every time!"
He eyed her momentarily from a vast and aloof coign of vantage. She was
dumb with resentment, oppressed by amazement and a little in awe of the
boy, her junior though he was.
"Now, lis'en: got any money?"
"No--yes--fifty cents," she stammered.
"That ain't goin' to carry you far over the bumps. Who's goin' to put up
for you while you're lookin' for this job-thing? Your frien' Maizie?"
"I don't know--I guess so--yes: I'm going to stay with her."
"Well, you won't last long if you don't come through with some coin
every little while."
Without warning Butch produced a small packet of bills from his
trouser-pocket.
"Djever see them before?" he enquired, with his mocking smile.